The Photographer

I stared at the American photographer, standing there, peering through his camera lens, as though nothing were wrong with the world. All smiles, very cheery, but was there anything to smile about in this place?
Did he not see what was right in front of him? The piles of trash, the pained people, the broken belongings. He cared for nothing but one good photo, so he could get paid, go back home, and never think of me again. It’s all that controlled the western world. Money and power. They are worried about their own safety, forgetting about my grumbling tummy, my sick mother, and my dead father.
The men in black robes were out there, with their guns, spreading terror and violence. Their trucks, the one with the faster guns, driving through our streets. My home in ruins, destroyed by their bombs, filled with their hatred, their sick thoughts of killing as being fun. Seemingly hunting humans for sport, their uncaring faces, how they’d willingly kill anyone or anything.
This wasn’t who I am. I wanted to be a doctor, to help those who are stuck in my current position, unable to care for myself, wanting to be a good and helpful person. Is that too much to ask for?
But no, instead I’m standing here, a solemn and grim little kid, the smiling American photographer in front of me. The camera took the picture, not capturing the true me, the one who wanted to help people, but the one who’d been trapped here, my fate chosen for me by the men in black robes with guns.


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